


Clothes Maketh the Man

by kleptoandpyro



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Porn, Bottom Mick Rory, Clothing Kink, Clothing Porn, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Glove Kink, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mick Rory Defense Squad, Mild Kink, POV Mick Rory, Praise Kink, Pre-Heist, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, Suit Kink, Suit Porn, Top Leonard Snart, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21964072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleptoandpyro/pseuds/kleptoandpyro
Summary: For the first time in Mick’s life, he feels hot.Written for the Coldwave Winter Holiday Exchange 2019.
Relationships: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart
Comments: 11
Kudos: 116
Collections: Coldwave Winter Holiday Exchange 2019





	Clothes Maketh the Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hiver_Frost_Elf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiver_Frost_Elf/gifts).



> Sorry for the late posting, Partner! Merry Christmas!
> 
> Original prompt: "Would LOVE to see Leonard caring for Mick as if he was a doll. Mick doesn't usually enjoy dressing snazzy, but he discovers that he loves it when Leonard dresses him up (probably for a heist at a fancy shindig or something). So they play around with that at home. I just see a lot of Mick calling other people "doll" in fic, and would love to see him treated like one."

It feels like he’s suffocating.

Inside and out.

And it’s a feeling he knows well, having been swallowed whole by flames at least once before in his life; the crushing heat boxing him into himself and burning the air out of his mouth.

Everything’s tight and constricting, claustrophobic; ribs pressing inward like the bars of a cage; each breath swallowing more of the dead heavy remains of his pride into his lungs, letting it ooze deep like napalm.

He can’t move, can barely flex his muscles without the crushing wall making itself known - hot, close, pressing harder - testing his instincts to fight it back.

His skin itches like hell too, the first prickles of sweat already at his brow, and he’d give anything to tear himself free - jailbreak - if it wasn’t for the other source of the pressure, the living one lingering on the outside of the bedroom door no doubt tapping his damn thumb against an elbow, waiting patiently for him to finish so he can see the results.

But Mick has early access thanks to the full length mirror opposite and all it does is remind him why he doesn't do this sort of thing. 

Why he knew he should've followed his gut and said no from the start. 

_Everything's wrong._

He looks dumb. Feels it even more for thinking it might've worked. 

But he’s come too far, and he wants it to work. Needs it to. Because he can hear the tapping foot and it's a sound which Mick has over the years learned to associate with the partnership and namely how Snart's side of it is always the one which looks the best, is the perfect picture of leaderdom and charm and smarts whilst his forms the end which is meatheaded and slow and always one step behind; waiting for Mick to stop roasting pigs so they can make their getaway; waiting for Mick to finish stealing the loot when they’ve already got what they came for; waiting for Mick to understand the plan; waiting for hell to freeze over.

And the foreign impulse to impress rises up just as quickly as the anxious bile in his throat. 

He can't tell which sensation makes it to his dry mouth first as he shifts awkwardly to try and find a better side in the smudged glass and almost laments that he can't find one.

But Mick doesn’t lament, he just rages. That’s the way it’s always been.

And making eye contact with his stupid reflection, ridiculous, laugh worthy, _pathetic_ …

He lets out a snarl.

...Now's no different. 

“I _hate_ suits!”

And he rages, throws the tie off, rips off the vest and is about to start on the jacket just as Snart opens the door. 

If anything, seeing his partner all dressed up, looking every bit cool and collected, dressed to the nines - and tens - just like the filthy rich tycoon they were supposed to swindle tonight, just makes Mick more incensed.

_What kind of partner couldn’t even dress to the twos._

“Cold feet?”

He ignores the pun. “This is stupid. I look stupid. Why am I wearing this monkey suit like a chump, why can’t I wear my normal gear.”

He already knows the answer, and so does Snart who’s definitely told him more than once. But the steam needs an outlet.

There’s a careful intake of breath. “Because we’re going to a gala for Central City’s top 1%, not an AA meeting. The item is on one of the invitees so we gotta mingle which means blending in which means...suits.” His voice sounds tight, must be tired of telling him. But Mick doesn’t look, he’s still trying to burn a hole in the remaining fabric with the intensity of his staring. The glass stares back just as harshly.

He growls reproachfully at the reddening skin around his collar. “Should just ambush ‘em in the alley and be done with it.”

“We’ve been over this.”

And under it, and alongside it but Mick doesn’t care for plans right now, and not ones supposedly burned into his memory.

“Right, _of course,_ ” and he throws his hands up in the air and stiffly twirls to face his partner, “don’t mind me, Boss. I‘m just the brawn at the end of the day. Ain’t paid for thinking.”

Bitter sarcasm wasn’t usually his style but there’s something about the way Snart’s eyes crease and his throat bobs that makes Mick think the comment has had some kind of cutting effect, and that’s satisfying, even if he’s starting to lose circulation.

Snart walks towards him a bit and Mick raises his chin expecting an earful on the importance of the plan and doing what was necessary and who the hell knows what else, probably how a career criminal should always keep up with the latest fashion trends and ‘ _we should find you a wig because bald is out and top knots are in, Mick’_ but he isn’t looking at his face, and now that Mick is seeing him properly, he doesn’t look like he’s been fully listening; his eyes are slightly clouded and they’re slowly flitting over his chest, up over his shoulders, down his arms and towards his thighs.

It makes him feel naked, and not in the good way. Like he’s being inspected.

“What made you go black shirt and no vest and tie.”

Right. Cos everything Mick did was wrong, always.

“You laid ‘em out. Just picked ‘m up and put ‘m on.”

“I gave you a pile of different 3-pieces to choose from.”

The suffocating feeling is almost choking him, everything’s hazy and close and he opens his mouth to spit the bile in Snart’s direction-

“It looks really good on you.”

It falls out of Snart’s mouth so quickly that it takes both of them by surprise. The drawl isn’t as pronounced in private but anything spoken by him at normal speed and above is jarring.

Leonard seems to realise it and reigns himself back a bit more. “That is, it suits you.”

The foreign sensation is back rising in Mick’s abdomen, and he feels the need to cross his arms over it to stop it getting any higher.

“These are about a size too small though.”

And before Mick can say anything or register he’d forgotten temporarily about the crushing tightness of the constricting fabric, Leonard is pulling clothing out of the pile and holding it up against him. Comparing.

After a few moments of the scrutiny and several _‘turn around’_ s and _‘no’_ s he starts getting fidgety, feels the anxious bile start to advance over the self confidence. “This is stupid just-”

“This.”

And Leonard plucks a suit combination out from the rest. It looks similar to the one he’s already wearing except it’s a slightly darker grey and the black undershirt is less formal.

“Here let me-”

“Fine, give it-”

There’s an awkward exchange where Mick eventually takes the clothing and Leonard busies himself with setting his watch to give him some privacy.

Why, he doesn’t know; the son of a bitch always sets it well in advance.

But Mick doesn’t dwell on that now, cos it turns out the suit is harder to get off than it is to get on, and when a minute passes and he’s no freer from the jacket, he’s growling, ready to rip the whole thing off when Leonard appears at his back.

“Relax your shoulders, put your arms back.”

If there’s one thing he can always rely on to calm him some is his partner’s ability to read him and act accordingly. He could comment on Mick’s flustered ire, his frustrations and impatience, but he never does.

Always cools him, diffuses.

For having such a mellow voice, Leonard seems to cut through the cloud and reach him, every time.

And once his mind and his muscles untangle, he lets the slender fingers grip the fabric and gently prize it off. 

Mick immediately feels the relief.

But when Leonard moves in front of him and begins unbuttoning his shirt, some of that relief is replaced with restraint. The sensation of being undressed is new to him. Another person’s touch on his skin outside of the realm of sex, and violence, alien.

The way Leonard’s hands pull open the cotton and push it over his bare shoulders, the way he moves to an arm, takes the sleeve and smoothly peels it over the grizzled skin, and then the other. Methodical.

The way he doesn’t ask for permission, but just knows Mick will let him because Mick always does.

The way his eyes are slightly glazed again.

Leonard makes a jerky movement towards the pants then stops.

Too far.

Mick comes back to himself and attends to his fly. But much like the upper part of the outfit, the bottom part is just as tight if not more so.

And much like before, after a few failed attempts, he feels a presence come closer behind him, calm, but this time waiting.

Mick gives a stiff nod.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Leonard sink to his knees before; not in front of anyone, not on the job and certainly not for Mick. Coupled with the fact that he’s outfitted in an expensive designer 4-piece and tugging down Mick’s pants while he’s doing it is giving Mick a strange sense of self importance.

When the things finally come off he can’t help the groan, feeling slightly euphoric for a second almost so much so that the sight of the new proffered suit just makes him want to set the thing on fire and do the job in his underwear.

But Leonard’s got that look in his eye again, the one that he gets when he sees something valuable.

And even though it makes Mick feel endlessly shifty...he thinks he likes this look. This heated gaze from his chilled partner. It’s enveloping, a different kind of pressure over his body - nothing like the suit - different, like a warm massage.

There’s an unspoken message, then a spoken one.

“Step in.”

And Leonard’s down on his knees again opening the suit pants.

He puts a hand on the waist height shoulder for balance and slides a leg into the hole. The fabric is smooth, and well made, and once the other leg is in, he can feel the difference; how the material grips him but gives him plenty of space to move; like a second skin.

A second skin which Leonard is moving his hands up, slowly smoothing out the creases and warming over.

It never occurs to him that _Cold’_ s hands could be warm, but they are.

Only when the fly is up and the fastenings connected does Leonard stand back up; his own suit seems to have developed a few creases but he doesn’t seem to notice.

The warm hands are lingering on Mick’s waist and he pauses. “...How does that feel.”

Mick swallows. He doesn’t know which part constitutes ‘that’ so he settles on, “Good.”

“It looks good.”

“Mhmm.”

Leonard leans to the side to look behind him, hands still planted, and Mick wonders what he’s doing until he realises the mirror is behind him.

A fidgety heat prickles over his ass.

“Back is a good fit.”

He has nothing to say to that but he does tense his glutes to test it out. The hands gripping his waist tighten slightly.

But just as quickly as they’re there, they’re gone as Leonard moves away and comes back with the rest of the outfit.

Without hesitating much this time he turns and threads his arms into the shirt being held open. It’s a dark number, stark against the gray of the suit material.

Leonard is all blues and navy with some black here and there. And Mick has a good view of the intricate tie and the little touches on the vest as he’s buttoned up. The aftershave on his partner is delicate and he wouldn’t’ve noticed it if they weren’t so close.

He also doesn’t flinch when the hands return to smooth him over and primp and set everything into place; nor when he’s dressed in the new jacket.

Everything feels better, feels done properly. And he’s about to turn to look in the mirror except he hears a tut.

The crease is back between Leonard’s eyebrows and he’s tapping a thumb against an elbow.

Mick deflates. “What.”

“It’s not right.”

The itching feeling starts to return.

“What we need is a- _ah_.”

But it’s halted when he sees what Leonard’s holding up; a black t-shirt, discarded on the seat. One with a v-neck which isn’t one of Mick’s.

Because it’s one of Leonard’s.

Without asking or warning him, he’s being shrugged out a jacket again, unbuttoned and once more released to the air. 

The first thing he’s aware of when the shirt is pulled over his head is the scent of it. Worn just the day before. A delicate aftershave, something kinda woody, something like Leonard. The second thing is how form fitting it is; hyper aware of each muscle in his chest and abdomen on display through the fabric.

He feels like he needs to say something about being dressed in his partner’s old clothes except he’s already being shrugged into the jacket and placed in the center of the room.

For a long moment there’s no movement.

He once more tries to think of something to break the silence in the room but he’s caught short by the, _“Damn,_ Mick," spoken so breathlessly that he wonders if a third person had walked in and said it.

Except Leonard looks like he’s come face to face with the Hope Diamond and something within Mick unhinges.

This time he does nothing to stop the swell rising in his chest, drifting into every muscle and limb and patch of skin. 

Nor does he make any move to stop Leonard when he stalks over, predatory, shoes in hand, bulge testing the zipper of his own slacks.

Nor when he sinks once more before Mick, lifts each foot into a shining black dress shoe and ties each lace into a perfect knot.

Nor when he rises up and attaches a brand new rolex onto his wrist and slips a handkerchief into his breast pocket.

Because for the first time in Mick’s life, he feels hot.

“Look at you, looking so _good_ ,” comes the breathy voice again, and Mick immediately feels the warm feeling dive into his loins.

Len looks down with interested eyes and Mick can feel his gaze on his swelling crotch, smirk forming on his face like he’s just received the important tip off he’s been waiting for.

Whatever it is, it changes the tone completely.

“Looking so _perfect_ for me.”

Damn.

“Do you like it when I dress you up, Mick?” purrs Len. This time the hands feel broader as they brush the fluff from his jacket, possessive.

“Yeah, Boss.”

“I had a feeling.” And Mick barely stops the sigh as one hand slides down over his crotch and squeezes him snugly through the high quality fabric.

“I can’t wait to see the faces of all those rich assholes when I take you in, all the _boners_ ,” and he unzips him, slipping a hand inside to grip his naked cock, “you’re gonna give them.”

Mick sucks in a sharp breath and manages an affirming grunt; Len’s grip unyieldingly firm as he strokes him, coaxing him to full size.

His mind is in a heat haze, yoyoing between the desire to throw Len off his oversensitive flesh, his itching skin, and the pathological need to beg him never to let go.

But the diamond in Len’s eyes is gaining value by the second and once he gets his eye on something he wants; he doesn’t give it up without a fight.

Mick almost second guesses himself when the handjob stops.

“Le- Boss?”

“In front of the mirror,” comes the command. And at Mick’s confused look Len continues, wickedly, “We have to finish getting you ready. Can’t have my partner out on the tiles half dressed.”

Mick’s about to comment that he’s the one who undressed him, but does as he’s told and once more finds himself in front of the mirror.

His skin is tingling with warmth as he looks over himself; suit clinging to his body in all the right places, cock jutting out through the zipper, a pearl already forming at the end. Len has good instincts and the informal look is flattering. No vest, no tie, just Mick’s broad form filling out the outfit, the roughened edges smoothed over with Armani; a far cry from the loose and oil covered jeans and t shirt he usually wore.

This Mick is elegant, and worth looking at, and hearing it said out loud when the movement behind him turns into, “Gorgeous,” his knees almost buckle.

Although when two gloved hands reach around him, a warm body plastering itself to his back, to open up the pants more fully and hold him firm, they do a bit.

He lets out a very vocal moan when he feels the glove oil. Len smirks.

Seeing himself in the mirror, in an expensive suit, Len behind - his chin over Mick’s shoulder, watching his face - being stroked so maddeningly firm and slick is an image he’d never thought he’d have; how the red flush rises up his neck, how his chest heaves and shudders with every curl of pleasure, how an hour ago he’d never have wanted to see himself like this but now, with Len’s heated gaze on him - so different from his usual cool indifference, wanting - is driving him closer to the brink.

And he doesn’t know what to do with his hands; there’s no heat gun at his thigh to hold.

He’s already so close.

_“G-gona-”_

But then an indescribable tightness grips him, pressure, heat, halting the wave of pleasure and he’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice Len’s quick hands.

There’s a damn bow tie wound around his cock and under his balls. Black. Pristine.

“Do you like it?” comes the purr by his ear.

And despite his shuddering muscles and throbbing cock and the almost comical image- “Y-yeah.”

“Mhhm, _Beautiful.”_

It’s a word he’s never heard aimed in his direction; a word that he doesn’t think he’s ever used himself. He’s thrown around ‘pretty’ plenty, and ‘hot’ and ‘baby’, nameless hookers here and there, one night stands, but they’re empty words; reusable like plastic.

Not like that word; not rich and warm and full and meaningful. One use only, like firewood.

“Say it.”

He’s missed the movement again, Len two steps ahead as usual, already pulling down Mick’s pants, his own fly down, slipping his slick cock through Mick’s bare thighs, beneath his balls, under the black fabric of the bow.

It’s an indescribable invasion and yet the least invasive act. His partner, always diffusing.

Mick can see the two cock heads side by side, Mick’s on top, gripped in Len’s gloved hands, Len’s underneath snug between his thighs, still looking directly at him.

Mick searches for his tongue. “Beautiful.” The word sounds wrong coming out of his mouth and he winces.

Len thrusts slowly, skin on skin, that delicate scent surrounding Mick, by his neck, in his shirt. “ _What are you,_ Mick?”

It’s many minutes before he can answer again, just watching as he’s stroked, as he’s held and used and looked at with so much reverence. Both valuable and invaluable. He somehow knows that Len won’t progress them until he says it, that he’ll throw the heist if he has to, teasing them, edging them until he hears the words; content to wait him out like he’s casing a job.

His breathing speeds up as the pressure builds, as the intense eyes seek his, as the MIck in the mirror tips a graceful neck back and groans with heavy lidded eyes and he finally _sees_. “‘m beautiful.”

They’re both panting now, Len thrusting faster, matching his strokes with his hips.

“ _So. Damn. Beautiful._ ” And Len is tensing up.

Mick is raging. It’s too much and not enough. _“Len-”_

But it’s not when Len rips off the bowtie, or the gloved hands stroking him just _so,_ it’s the whispered, “My perfect doll,” that has the hot rising bow wave in his chest bursting out, his cock erupting all over his mirror image and the tears escaping his eyes.

Everything’s tight and loose and constricting and freeing, agoraphobic; ribs expanding outward like the bars of a burst cage; each breath blowing more of the buoyant, warm pride out of his lungs, flowing out like glove oil.

Len paints his reflection with his come and sighs out something musical as Mick floats in heady bliss.

The glass is shimmering by the time they’re both spent, the suit in the glass thoroughly streaked as the last of the spasms die down; like he’s been dressed by Len in white.

There’s not a mark on their suits. He knows Len will see to that. Will see to everything. Is letting Mick see himself in a way he’s never been seen before.

It feels like he’s suffocating.

And yet, at the same time, Mick feels like he’s finally breathing easier than he ever has.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [kleptoandpyro.tumblr.com](https://kleptoandpyro.tumblr.com)
> 
> Interested in talking Coldwave with other writers? Get involved in an Arrowverse community where we basically talk ships and fanworks and write fic all day long? Find beta readers and like minded folk?
> 
> Then join us in the [The Flarrowverse Shipyard Discord Server](https://discord.gg/D4RFsRq)! You've got nothing to lose, come get involved!


End file.
